February 28, 2012

Still dark, not much to see at this hour, though I can hear a soft rain or a heavy fog dripping off the trees, and even the birds are still asleep.  Everyone in the house asleep as well, it's quiet, and I am glad of it for a little while.  Some nights are so restless that it's worth getting up to have a little peace, and the quiet is soothing.  I imagine the sky thick with clouds, and somewhere the moon making the backs of them shine like silver foil.  If you could see the moon tonight, it would be more than a fingernail, a slice of white, growing larger.

There is this poem about getting up and leaving your beloved in bed, I liked it for the title as well.

Intensities of Emphasis and Wonder
    
The sleeping one is erect and mumbles.
The room went Arctic overnight

and his foot peeks outside the covers.
You leave his warm slumber

five minutes before the new hour,
stomach growling, and possible

moon somewhere. There's slight moisture
still. He'll later say he saw you leave.

The day will happen soon enough—
peanut butter sandwich, dropped knife,

tote bag of graded papers.
Flossing in a colder room,

planning Jefferson myth-debunking,
washing hair—the man's sleep stretches

without boundaries, rolled to middle,
as if it were his bed, thick lashes,

even beard, and no concern for pillow.
He doesn't know it's October and you are happy.

Farrah Field

There are so many poems about daily things because what is our life but these daily things that make it up.  We wake up, try not to disturb others sleeping, make plans, listen to the drip of a slow rain.  Some mornings it's that extra sleep that you need to be able to do what is necessary, some mornings it's getting up so you can settle down that's needed.  Either way, it's all happened before, some other morning, sleep through the house stretching without boundaries, awake you listen to the creaks of the floor, people snoring softly, all the quiet sounds that drift through rooms where you are the only one awake. There is always that wonder of looking down into the sleeping face of someone you love, child, husband, anyone, so vulnerable to the world, and yet trusting, the perfect trust of sleeping that makes you want to keep them safe so they can continue sleeping in that trust. Soon enough, as the poet says, peanut butter sandwiches and papers to grade, but for now it's sitting listening to the quiet and the rain, anticipating the light, which will be late filtering through so much cloud, to finally arrive, subdued and sleepy, only to slowly grow through the mostly still-bare trees, and the rain.